Monday, January 23, 2017

I drove to the Metro stop closest to me, hoping that I was far away enough from DC to get a parking spot. I got a parking spot as well as a seat on the train. The first thing I noticed were all the pink hats with cat ears (henceforth referred to as p-hats). Actually, the first thing I noticed were all the white women wearing pink p-hats. I was the lone brown girl on the train going to the Women's March on Washington.

I felt completely out of place. I could feel myself losing the initial excitement I'd originally felt when I first decided I was going to the march. On November 8th, I went to bed feeling sick. I'd been following FiveThirtyEight.com for the past few weeks, feeling pretty confident that Hillary Clinton was going to win and become the first woman President of the United States, like everyone else. But as I kept reloading the electoral map and seeing red, I got nauseous, my body and soul seemingly splitting from one another, and at about 12:30am, I made myself go to bed. I woke up at about 3:20am, believing with all my heart that this close race was going to take a few days - that all the votes would be counted, that Hillary Clinton wouldn't concede even if HWSNBN (short for "He Who Shall Not Be Named," aka Voldemort) surpassed her in electoral votes. And at 3:20am, there was still no declared winner. I slept fitfully until 5:30am. I looked at my phone and saw that HWSNBN was declared the winner of the 2016 presidential election.

I died inside more than a little that day. I dressed for work in the deepest black I owned, a dress that fits like a burlap sack and the thickest tights to protect myself from reality. I cried on the way to work, and when I got there, I could see that many of my colleagues were fighting back tears as well. Ironically, many of us were attending a mental health first aid training that day, and the consensus was that WE needed the mental health first aid. (Hello!) We were expected to be fully present during this training, meaning no cell phones. NO CELL PHONES on the day of the apocalypse, really? I sat through the training, which was actually a really good distraction, then went home to cry. That night and over the next couple of days, I saw a "Million Woman March" with different state delegations popping up on my Facebook newsfeed. I could see that there were several iterations of this march idea over the next few days, with more than a few debates taking place in the event posts, until it morphed into the Women's March on Washington, co-chaired by Linda Sarsour, who I was familiar with as a returning commentator on several MSNBC broadcasts. When I saw Linda Sarsour, someone who'd gained my respect over the past year, I was in. I took time to research Carmen Perez and Tamika Mallory as well, and that's when I knew that this march was going to be historic in nature, and I had to be part of it.

Let me be clear. I saw the initial chaos around the march. I knew that women of color, especially black women, were concerned that our voices weren't being represented. Even worse, white women were booking flights and hotels with no idea how to actually plan a rally/protest - possibly because they didn't have much to protest before this? - and women of color were like, oh hell no. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right. Again, let me be clear, I only committed to this march when a Palestinian, a Chicana, and an African-American joined with Bob Bland, a white woman, to co-chair the march. That's when it became MY march, too.

So when I got on that metro and rode for about five stops before I saw a black woman get on with Women's March paraphernalia, I was very guarded. I looked down at my phone. I pretended to myself that I was just riding the metro that morning to get somewhere else - that I wasn't going to this march with all these white women with their pink p-hats...no. This march wasn't for me.

This older white woman sat down next to me, and somehow, I found myself talking with her, because she exuded this excitement, and I think I found it intriguing that this woman who was clearly in her 60's pulled out her phone and then pulled up the WMW app that I'd been secretly looking at. Soon, I was giving her tips on how not to get separated from her friend who was sitting across from her. Then, I saw a Latinx family with a little girl, who was trying to make sure the little one didn't get squished on the train, which was packed like overstuffed luggage. One of the young white women sitting near me moved into a corner between me and her friend to let the little girl sit down, and that's when I saw her sign.

"And to all the little girls who are watching this, never doubt that you are valuable and powerful and deserving of every chance and opportunity in the world to pursue and achieve your own dreams. - Hillary Clinton"

Photo Credit: M. Mfume

And that was when I dropped my guard. I fought back serious tears, remembering why I decided to go to the march in the first place.

By the time I got to the station where I was meeting my (black) friend and her (white) husband, there were all kinds of women waiting in line for the bathroom with me at the Starbucks on the corner. Our other friend who was supposed to come (a black man) texted us that he was running late and the trains were full of "a sea of white people dressed in pink and/or HRC paraphernalia," and he couldn't get on the train, so we started walking. The closer we got to the Capitol and the meeting spot for the rally preceding the march, the less I thought about these white women in pink. My friends and I found ourselves walking with hundreds of thousands of people, when someone started chanting, "This is what democracy looks like!" and others responded, "This is what democracy looks like!" "Tell me what democracy looks like!" "This is what democracy looks like!" "We are what democracy looks like!" "We are what democracy looks like!"

Me, giving in to the energy of the day

I saw white men and women chanting "Black Lives Matter!" with me and my friends. I saw white women, young and old, wearing Black Lives Matter t-shirts and buttons and carrying signs saying, "Respect Women of Color." My eyes were opened. This WAS my march, too. This fight that has been a part of my life as an educator and activist for the past twenty years gained soldiers who may not look like me, but who now understand what I have understood for a long time - we cannot take our bodies, our very lives, for granted in the face of tyranny.

To those white women in the pink p-hats, I'd like to say: maybe this is your first time at a march. Maybe this is the first time you've heard messages from women of color about racism, about the undocumented and immigrant experience, about police brutality. Thank you for listening. Remember the Women's March on Washington - and fight with your brothers and sisters of different races, orientations, ethnicities, faiths, gender identities and socioeconomic class - because, together, WE are what democracy looks like.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

I am Latina (or Latinx, or Puerto Rican, or Hispanic, or a mixture of three races - Caucasian, African, Native - or Afrolatina because that's what I most closely identify as, or American). This sometimes places me in an awkward position when discussing matters of race in the US, especially after the election of the current 45th President. After all, 33% of Latinos voted for the man. And while I often find myself disagreeing with the politics of some of my Latinx family, I must insist that we are such a diverse entity that there's no way our politics could align. We are approximately 22 countries (including the US) with varying languages, cultures, and politics. When race comes up as a topic of discussion, it is primarily a black and white conversation, and Latinx people don't neatly fit into those categories.

I decided to have my DNA analyzed recently, and found out some interesting information; this self-proclaimed Afrolatina is 59% European - not too surprising due to the mixing created by imperialism (i.e., the rape of native and African women by European colonizers), guaranteeing that practically everyone born in the western hemisphere has some European ancestry. However, I don't identify with Europe because I don't have the privilege of that ancestry.

My AncestryDNA results.

I am brown, and that 18% Native American ancestry is clear in my phenotype. Having lived in Brooklyn most of my life in a predominantly black and Latino neighborhood, I identify with the black experience in the US, and I have long understood that there's African blood in my veins. When the black community experiences instances of oppression, I identify with that oppression - I don't just empathize. I have seen black and brown people die at the hands of police brutality and systemic oppression in New York City for as long as I can remember. I have been called the N word in my lifetime. So when discussions of race come up, I tend to speak from the perspective of the black experience, even though I'm not technically what most people would consider black. Back in the early 90's - my first encounter with activism - this did not matter; as a matter of fact, solidarity was welcomed. Now, I tend to step back more because I understand that, due to my phenotype, there are certain privileges I own that are based on the 78% of me that is not (technically) black. I hear the pain in my black brothers' and sisters' voices when they speak of the micro- and macroagressions they experience daily. Sometimes I hear my black brothers and sisters say that I don't understand their experience as a non-black person of color. I have to respect those feelings, and as a counselor I have learned that it is never my job to tell a person what they should or shouldn't feel.

I went to the Women's March on Washington yesterday. The march was, from the onset, controversial because the original organizers were primarily white women. Before we could blink, however, experienced activists Tamika Mallory, Carmen Perez, and Linda Sarsour were added as co-chairs, and the march's principles became intersectional. In a synthesis of several articles I'd read and conversations I'd had prior to the march, I learned that some black women stated they wouldn't be attending because it wasn't until the election that white women seemed interested in speaking out about oppression. Others referred to the suffragette movement, when the women's right to vote prioritized white women's right to vote, literally pushing black women to the back of the movement. Some black women needed to know that the white women attending were going to "check their privilege." Some rightfully questioned the 53% of white women who voted for the current administration (I was at the march thinking the math wasn't adding up, to be honest). Some needed time for self-care. Again, as a counselor, I can't tell anyone how to feel and I respect those feelings. What I will say, though, is that I was encouraged to see more than a few white women (and men) at the march wearing Black Lives Matter paraphernalia and wholeheartedly chanting "Black Lives Matter." I can't really judge whether any of this support was genuine - I don't know any of those people I saw - but witnessing that made me realize that we're missing a narrative in the media - the support for Black Lives Matter by non-black people.

Every time we see Black Lives Matter marches on television, we don't often hear the voices of those white supporters of the movement. Just as mainstream media portrays people of color negatively, feeding stereotypes to white people who live in predominantly white worlds, it also negatively impacts black people's perceptions of support from non-black people, further creating a sense of isolation and alienation. Honestly, I was surprised to see how many white people at the march were supportive of Black Lives Matter and against the oppression and marginalization of people of color in general. Pleasantly surprised, but still surprised.

If we all took DNA tests to discover our ancestry, the ethnicity percentages that shape our identities might not be what we'd expect. After acknowledging my DNA results and celebrating the diversity of my existence, I think it's time for me to focus on the one percentage that impacts the majority of our lives - the 1% that is hoarding all of the privilege, power, and wealth, and the system that is maintaining that imbalance.

Monday, May 30, 2016

I wrote my name at three and started reading at four. In kindergarten, I had a conditional friend who would stop playing with me when I could read words she couldn't. In the second grade, I was called "Brainiac" and "Walking Dictionary," as if those were insults. I was threatened with getting beat up because I consistently won academic competitions and awards, and I didn't get the lead in the fourth grade play because my classmates thought it was enough that I was class president multiple times, a cheerleader, and, of course, the teacher's pet. I was not just good at whatever I set out to do, I was the best. If I couldn't be the best, it wasn't worth doing.

In my years working as the coordinator of a women's leadership organization at a higher education institution, my approach to leadership evolved. Witnessing perfectionism in the young women I was leading showed me how destructive such a trait could be. I saw women taking on all of the work meant for a team, because, "if I want it done the right way, I have to do it myself." I witnessed the resentment that would eventually come as a result of not being able to say no. And I also saw arrogance and pride alienate really great young women from their peers. I knew that much of this attitude came from me - the person who thrived under pressure, who took on way more than one human should be capable of; I was their example of a woman in a leadership position. Yet, the perception that I had it all together was just an illusion. There were so many nights when I would drive home after a successful event, feeling accomplished, but knowing that when I got home there was no one with whom to share my achievements. No celebratory meal or glass of champagne awaited me; nothing but an empty apartment, a shower, and bed.

At some point, I realized that I didn't want the young women I was mentoring to feel as alone and empty as I did. I wanted them to feel supported by one another and to know that perfectionism was not only unattainable, it was harmful to their relationships. I don't remember the day I said this phrase and why, but once I said it, it stuck. I'm sure we were debriefing an activity when I said, "Strive for excellence, not perfection." I remember thinking that we weren't holding ourselves accountable for finishing well because we were spending so much time aiming for perfection - an impossible task. We would give up or procrastinate rather than try and fail, and in avoiding failure for the sake of achieving perfection, we were letting each other down. I began to tailor my training sessions around working to develop areas in need of growth while celebrating our strengths. Our activities were created with the goal of appreciating our respective journeys rather than awaiting a perfect result. The outcome was that our relationships with each other grew stronger than ever, more genuine and authentic. I am proud to say that many of the women grew in confidence; not just in themselves, but in each other.

It's been a couple of years since, and I currently work with young people ages 12-18 who are gifted and high achievers. They, much like I was in elementary school, are the "walking dictionaries" among their peers. But in this age of technology that moves faster than the speed of light, young people are smarter than they've ever been. Because my students live around the country, I have to schedule time to talk with them over the phone. Often it is so challenging to schedule calls, not because I have so many that need to fit into my own schedule, but because they have multiple activities scheduled throughout the week. When talking about any endeavor, they must win, they must be the best, the first. In them, I see myself as a young child - needing to be the best in order to feel accomplished. Needing to be perfect in order to be valued and affirmed.

I struggle now, because high achievers expect the person advising them to be the most knowledgeable, the most able to get them into the best colleges and universities, the one who has the answers to all of their questions. They trigger the perfectionism I'd thought I'd recovered from. I find myself tipping the balance between work and life - once again, waiting to hear the words, "well done," but coming home to the emptiness borne of my own ambition to be perfect. No one benefits from striving for perfection, least of all those of us who never fail, because we are afraid to take the risk of trying something new and different.

What if the "new and different" is what we need in order to live the lives we were intended to live? What if striving for perfection is keeping us from the very thing we need in order to feel fulfilled in this life - relationship and fellowship with others? What if, instead, striving for authenticity in our relationships is actually what will draw unto us that which is perfect, and good, for us?

As with anyone who is recovering from an illness, there's a possibility of relapse. But, to paraphrase the cliche on recovery, "the first step is admitting the problem." I humbly admit that I have a problem with perfectionism, but I won't continue to strive for it, nor for excellence. Rather, I choose to strive for authenticity. At the end of my life, I don't want to be able to say that I accomplished so many things all alone. I want to say that I left love in the hearts of many.

Saturday, April 23, 2016

Two days ago, I went on Instagram and saw that one of my college friends posted a photo of Prince captioned, "Rest in Power, Prince." My response? "Nooooooo!" Back in 2009, when I learned of Michael Jackson's passing, I cried. In 2012, when Whitney Houston was found dead in a bathtub, I was extremely sad and upset that drugs were such a demon for her. When David Bowie died this past January, I was reminded of my mornings spent getting ready for school and listening to the pop station in New York City, bopping around to "Modern Love." On Thursday, April 21, 2016, I scrambled to find what I hoped was not true: Prince could not have died. He couldn't have. And in those first few minutes, I couldn't find anything saying he was dead. Then, just a few minutes later, the news broke: yes, Prince Rogers Nelson was dead.

Why is this a big deal to me?, you might wonder. Well, it's hard to explain, but I will attempt to. I grew up in the era of MTV and the advent of music videos. I grew up listening to, and watching, David Bowie, Sting and Billy Idol. I carried Michael Jackson everywhere with me (he was on a button on my jacket), Whitney Houston sang the soundtrack of my childhood love life (LOL), and Prince? Oh my. I remember going to a friend's home after school, whose mom was cool (or irresponsible) enough to let us go into her room with another friend and three boys to watch Purple Rain, the movie. (If my mom knew what I was watching, she would have never let me talk to that girl again, much less go to her apartment.) I got some kind of education watching that movie. I mean, who could get 'Darling Nikki" out of their mind after that performance?

Prince's music and his videos were everywhere. He was the ultimate gender-bender, yet so masculine. I didn't comprehend his talent or even his sex appeal at the tender age of 12, but I knew he was special, different. And I knew that, when "1999," "Controversy," and "Let's Go Crazy" came on the radio, I was given permission to go crazy, get nuts, kick my shoes off and dance - letting go of all of my inhibitions. I was a perfectionist and a people-pleaser throughout my childhood, but Prince gave me permission to stop thinking about anything and anyone but my own body and my heart. He gave me permission to enjoy life.

We grow up and adulthood teaches us to prioritize, to plan, to set goals. We lose the ability to let go and go "crazy." We wake up exhausted, sit in traffic for hours or doze off on the subway, go to work, and come home to figure out dinner and go to bed, just to do the same thing over and over again. We give our life over to others - our jobs, our families - and forget who we are, and what keeps us motivated and passionate about life. Our energies are focused outward, and we lose spontaneity - dying a little inside over time. Prince? Prince, to me, was the ultimate life live-r. He worked hard, yes, but all of his work was focused on becoming the greatest musician, the greatest performer, and it was obvious to us all that his energies went towards what he was most passionate about. He was in total control of himself, yet even in that control he understood the need to go crazy.

"We're all excited

But we don't know why

Maybe it's 'cause

We're all gonna die

And when we do

What's it all for

Better live now

Before the grim reaper come knocking on your door"

I never got to see Prince in concert, just like I never got to see Michael Jackson, or Whitney Houston, or Luther Vandross in concert - huge regrets of mine. I thought I had learned to live and enjoy my life, but as I reflect on this larger than life person and the huge loss to the music industry (and all of us), I realize that I have not given myself permission to "go crazy" in a very long time. I have become so weary due to the responsibilities of adulthood and my own personal losses that I haven't given myself permission to enjoy life and act on my passions.

We live in a time of social media now, something Prince was not a fan of. What we post gives others the perception that we are enjoying life, but I wonder how many of us would honestly say that is true? I know we all have to work, and we have to "adult," but how many of us continue to focus our energies outward and away from what we're most passionate about?

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

I realized that the readership I once had doesn't seem as enthusiastic about reading my blog posts. When I first started this blog, I would get comments and messages saying that my words resonated with people. People would share their innermost thoughts and feelings with me, telling me they felt understood, and in those moments I realized that my words had the power to heal. But they don't seem to have the same effect these days.

I've written about happiness, love, feminism, racism, my students - anything I have been passionate about. And I often share with the understanding that I am taking a risk by saying too much, giving too much away, just BEING TOO MUCH. There have been times that I've sobbed while writing and times when I've felt triumphant and even other-worldly, as if someone were writing through me.

Not so much lately.

I've been struggling with pretty much everything in my life. Nothing has been easy in the past year since I uprooted myself from a stable job and a place where I was accepted and loved as is, and came to this new place where no one knows me and no one seems to care how "amazing" I used to be. I am in a place where authenticity is not something to be achieved, because it is not understood as a concept. As much I am used to change and growth, I am in a place where people "are who they are" and I should not "expect them to change." It's like hitting brick walls and expecting them to bounce back. There's no other way to describe my experience so far. As a result, I have been expending energy becoming defensive, protected, and guarded in every relationship. I have become everything I've worked so hard to let go of, everything I told the young women in my life not to be. I let life beat me.

I know this because last week I was talking with one of the young professionals I supervise, and as I was looking for a way to resolve a problem, I decided that taking myself out of it would demonstrate that my ego was not as important as helping the team to run well. She said something to the effect of, "You are saying you are being humble in this instance, but you really sound defeated." Finally, someone truly understood my experience as of late, and I could feel the entire universe releasing a long-held, pent-up breath. My spirit told me, "You've lost who you really are."

Two weeks ago, I met a man with whom I'd been corresponding through a dating site and phone conversations. It wasn't easy at first, as he continues to remind me. "Remember when you wouldn't return my texts for four hours? When you would tell me specific times to call you and you wouldn't pick up?" What he knew, without me saying it, was that in those initial calls or texts, I was finding reasons not to engage. I didn't want to try - I had tried before, and it didn't work out. I had tried, and gotten so unbelievably hurt and betrayed that, even though I wanted to try again, I didn't want to try again. I got super defensive and refused to acknowledge those texts and calls. Then we had a snow day, and he called while I was doing nothing. I just picked up because, in that moment, I had no reason not to. The first words out of his mouth were, "Let me ask you this: Do you WANT a relationship?" He proceeded to tell me exactly how he felt about my antics, and somehow, rather than hang up on him for being so aggressive, I listened. And we talked. And somehow, two hours had gone by. Two hours of my precious time, that is usually planned. I plan phone conversations, okay? And at the end of those two hours, we got off the phone much in the same way teenagers do. "I'm really going to say goodbye now, okay? I'm really going to hang up." As I hung up, I breathed a sigh of surprise and relief, the universe sighing and smiling with me.

I talked to him again later that night after having cleaned my car off and getting back upstairs feeling a little sore. He told me to run a hot bath, get some candles and a glass of wine, and to just relax. I did it simply because he told me to, and I was so relaxed that I slept like a baby and felt as if I had given something to myself that I had not in such a long time: the gift of self-care. I don't know why I had not ever thought to pamper myself in that way. Yes, the bath was relaxing, but I left that experience with more than loosened muscles; I left feeling valued and appreciated by ME.

Photo Credit: M. Gerade

In the past two short weeks, this man has somehow reminded me that being spontaneous is a good thing, that everything doesn't have to be planned, that any time we are able to, we should make the time to see each other, and no matter what we do or for how little time it may be, there is value in those moments. He frequently remarks that he likes me - the "conservative" me that he first met through online photos, our first conversations, our first date - and the me who has opened up and accepted to go on this adventure with him. He believes that I have grown in such a short amount of time, but what he doesn't know is that who he sees now is really me. Being guarded and evasive was my defense mechanism, but he knocked that wall down as soon as possible to get to who I really am, a loving, compassionate, funny person who is willing to stop planning and start living. Again.

I have found me again. And this is why I write this right now, regardless of who reads. Because this is a part of who I really am. I am creative. I am expressive. I am, sometimes, too much. And I love it. I love ME.

Yesterday
afternoon, I went to see the movie "Selma," starring David Oyelowo
and featuring Oprah Winfrey. The film was directed by an African-American
woman, Ava DuVernay, of whom I'd heard because of a friend who works in the
film industry. As a director, she is a relative newcomer to mainstream
Hollywood, and while I have not seen her previous films, I understand the
impact she's had on my friend, who is still working to achieve success in such
a tough field, and I can appreciate how her integrity and work ethic as a
filmmaker have led to where she is now, with Selma.

I speak of Ava DuVernay because, if you look at her IMDB, you can see that
she's worked for many years in the film industry as a publicist, editor, writer
and director. Selma is only her third feature film, and most may never have
heard of her before this film, but as an African-American woman, she directed
this film with such nuance that I think only an African-American woman could.
As I watched the movie, I reflected on snippets of her interviews about "Selma," and I connected with Ms. DuVernay's voice in this film. "Selma" is about Martin Luther King, Jr., the struggle to bring the Voting Rights Act to
pass, and the violence that protesters during the Civil Rights era suffered, but
it was also about a man and the women who worked alongside him, women who stood
at the front lines yet never received the same accolades or recognition as MLK,
Jr., women and girls who were beaten and killed, not only because of their
race, but because they were brave (and crazy) enough to raise their voices to
demand justice and equal rights.

Scene from "Selma"

As I
watched Selma, I could not help but realize that, while this had happened in
the 1960's, it still resonates too strongly with the issues people of color
face today. In one scene, the protesters got down on both knees and put their
hands behind their heads. It made me think of the protests that have been
occurring in recent months. The "Hands Up, Don't Shoot" gesture,
demonstrating the gesture eyewitnesses have said that unarmed teen Michael
Brown made as he was being shot by police officer Darren Wilson in Ferguson,
Missouri in August of last year, flashed in my mind while watching the film. In
that scene, 1965 and 2014 abruptly came together as one single moment, my heart
and mind confused, angry, tired, and fearful all at once.

Howard University Protest

Watching
the film, I appreciated all of the work of the activists who truly endured
suffering during the Civil Rights era, but one question kept coming up in my
mind, soul, and spirit: "WHY are we still struggling today?" Why are
Black and Brown people in the United States still dealing with not only
violence and injustice at the hands of those who are supposed to protect and
serve, but even the Voting Rights Act - one of the most effective pieces of
legislation to come out of the Civil Rights era - being tampered with by the
Supreme Court and the states? Why are we still having to protest and organize
over, not just equal access to voting, but the right to simply walk down the
street without fear of being murdered for being Black?

Scene from "Selma"

Ferguson Protest

And as I
watched, emotions churned within me, and I asked myself, "What am I doing,
and what can I do, to contribute to this work?" I left the theater angry,
sad, amazed, and proud. There was so much that the activists of the Civil
Rights era did right, but the movement was literally assassinated by the
murders of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X, de facto segregation, poverty
and unemployment, pouring drugs into urban communities, educational inequality,
so on and so forth.

Ferguson Protest

A few weeks ago, I was
forced to make this blog and my Twitter account private and block someone from
my Facebook and LinkedIn accounts because I was being harassed for expressing
my views on recent events. To make matters worse, this person is a retired police
officer. I was afraid of what might happen to me and that I might possibly not
get the help that I needed if the harassment progressed from social media to a
physical confrontation. The fear is what caused me to stop talking about
Ferguson, Eric Garner, police brutality, and social inequality. The fear of
what might happen to me or my family caused me to lose my voice.

Scene from "Selma"

While I
am not against police, I am against police brutality and the excessive use of
force. While I am not racist, I am against institutional racism and systemic
inequality. While I do not hate men, I am most definitely a feminist. This
morning, waking up with "Selma" and the Martin Luther King, Jr.
holiday on my mind, I knew what I could do, and what I would do.

I will
use my voice again, and I will not let fear stop me from using my voice.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

It's the time of year when the streets are lit up with twinkling lights, people spend entirely too much money shopping for others (rather than, or as in my case as well as, for themselves), travel plans are made, and families and friends come together. "Elf " is on almost every day, sappy holiday romance movies fill the Hallmark Channel, and tears may show up at any time because, like the Grinch, our hearts are growing three sizes too big. It's Christmas time. Holiday time. Winter break.

This post is about romance, dating, and love. It's about getting up again after having been down for a very long time. It's for those who like the feeling of their heart swelling and tears showing up in the corners of their eyes. And if that's not you, you should probably read this. Because this is most definitely for you.

Over the past two months, I started dating someone. He is the first person I've consistently dated in a very long time and after having been in an on-again, off-again relationship with someone who pretty much committed every sin one possibly could against the person he supposedly loves. That relationship ended for good when he told me he'd had a child with someone three years prior. (Yes, while we were probably "off", but when we got back "on", he still waited three years to tell me.) And that relationship was one of the most heart- and gut-wrenching relationships of my life. That person seemed to be my soul mate, we understood each other, and we knew each other inside and out. Very intense.

When I moved from upstate New York to the Washington, DC area, I had done a lot of cleansing. I got rid of a lot of old stuff, including my old bedroom set from when I was married. I wanted a clean slate in every part of my life, including my love life. I decided, just three months after finally settling down with a new apartment and new job, to go online and see if I'd meet anyone. I found a free trial for a popular dating site, and was pleasantly surprised to see that I had gotten several emails from men in the area. I started corresponding with a few, but some were duds, one was overzealous (he offered to wash and blow dry my hair and arch my brows!), but one seemed pretty humble and unassuming, and he was respectful. He actually caught my attention because he made a reference to one of my photos that told me he paid attention to national news and politics, which is kind of one of my obsessions. We met after corresponding for a week or so and had a nice conversation. It went well and he said that he wanted to see me again.

Interestingly enough, my ex surfaced around that time as well, asking if he could come and visit. I didn't say no, but those plans ended up falling through, so I was able to meet Mr. Nice Guy. Why didn't I say no, you ask? Because when it came down to actually going out on a date, I thought I couldn't do it. I thought that my ex, Mr. A-Hole, was still too present in my heart. He was talking about trying to work things out and starting over (as usual), and although I knew that it would never work between us, I still had a teeny glimmer of hope that maybe things could get better, if I gave him another chance. Truth be told, I was so used to Mr. A-Hole, and I was scared to meet someone new. God, fate, and destiny did not allow us to reunite, especially during a time when I was attempting to start fresh, and I learned a huge lesson after these past two months.

A couple of days ago, after six dates with Mr. Nice Guy, things ended. Mr. Nice Guy, it turns out, has some difficulty dealing with life when it doesn't go exactly as planned. I wanted to like him because he was nice to me. And then he wasn't very nice to me. We went out a couple of times in DC to see some very nice Christmas shows, and during the entire time he found things to complain about, and he seemed to "jokingly" put down my suggestions, though he is not much of a decision maker. He didn't want to walk two blocks to the theatre from the parking garage. After the second evening of listening to him complain incessantly and blame me for his having to walk, including pretty much cursing me under his breath, I told him he had a choice, and he never had to go anywhere with me again. He dropped me off, and that was the last time I heard from him.

On one of our dates, I asked Mr. Not So Nice Guy why he was single. He seemed nice and he wasn't unattractive. He said that he doesn't meet a lot of people he can relate to (I was one of those people) and that, having been alone most of his life, he doesn't think very many people would be willing to accept his habits. After our last date, I knew why he was still single. He refused to open his heart up to anyone. It showed in how inflexible he was and how much he complained when he was out of his comfort zone. It showed in how he didn't want to get close to me at any point in our relationship. Every time he would kiss me good night, I could see how hesitant and awkward he was, how much thought he had to put into it. Even sitting in the theatre with him, I could see that he felt uncomfortable if our shoulders touched. He didn't want anyone sitting next to him, and as I watched other couples hug and kiss and be romantic, I knew that would never be us, no matter how many more dates we went on.

I find it interesting that the men I've come across, once hurt, find it so difficult to allow someone into their lives. I've been hurt, and I've felt utter loss, in the same ways the men I've known have. I have thought that I would never love again. I have felt betrayal and broken trust so deeply that I spent years not wanting to open up again. And yet, I know how alive I feel when I do open up, even just a little.

I'm sad for Mr. Nice Guy because I knew he was excited to meet someone he could talk to, who liked some of the same things he did. He seemed so used to things ending the way they ended for us a few days ago, as if that's how it usually goes for him, as if being "forever alone" is supposed to be his default status. If he had opened up to seeing walking a few blocks as an opportunity to explore, to spend time with someone he liked, to even have a romantic walk in DC at Christmas time, the night could have ended differently. Instead, he only saw things as an inconvenience to his comfort, and blamed me for his discomfort (even though he was driving and could have chosen a different place to park). So Mr. Nice Guy will go back to being alone, which is his comfort zone.

I'm happy for myself, because as I stated earlier, I learned a huge lesson about love. Although I thought my ex had a pretty firm grip on my heart, dating Mr. Nice Guy taught me that I could move on, that I could be treated the way I deserved to be treated, but also that I could determine when I wasn't being treated well and speak up for myself. It taught me that I could start over, that I could give love a chance, and that taking the risk of opening up feels better than withdrawing into my shell and freezing everyone else out.